


Youthful Dreams

by Simply_Isnt_On



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brother!Lock, Child Abuse, Gen, Kid!Lock, Neglect, baby!Sherlock - Freeform, minor amounts of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:52:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simply_Isnt_On/pseuds/Simply_Isnt_On
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Babies dream of unfathomable things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Youthful Dreams

As an infant, he is left in the dark. All too often, his parents will leave the house, leaving baby Sherlock on his back in his crib. They never leave so long that he suffers anything more than an uncomfortably empty stomach or a bit of diaper rash.

So Sherlock lies in the dark, tiny legs kicking in the air, crying loudly, and later, sleeping, tear tracks drying on his round cheeks. His faint peach fuzz wears off in the back from the way he rocks his head back and forth as he screams.

Whenever his parents come home for the night, they bring Mycroft with them, and he always runs to the nursery, climbing the bars to gaze down at the talcum scented bundle in the crib. After the first few times his parents ignore his pleas for them to feed his brother, Mycroft takes it upon himself to sort out the formula.

The first bottle is lumpy, and Sherlock shrieks and spits it out. By the third, Mycroft has figured it out and Sherlock gets the meal he’s been after for the past three hours, suckling hungrily at the rubber nipple until the bottle is empty. Then he curls against Mycroft’s small shoulder and is inexpertly burped. When he is sure he’s done what he can for the baby, Mycroft leaves him in his crib. And now, belly full and diaper changed, Sherlock sleeps. And he dreams.

Sherlock dreams of swords and eye patches, vests and fake gold coins. He dreams of a tree house, and of falling from the tree house and breaking an arm. He dreams of growing, discovering science. Mind palaces, syringes drift through his mind, followed by a dog grabbing his ankle and a man apologizing profusely. 

There’s a rush, in his mind, when he can see what other people don’t, and what’s more, show them. He dreams of a time in Florida, a smiling lady like one of the maids, with a wrinkled face, patting his cheek. And then there was a man in a three-piece suit, who Sherlock tortured his violin for when he came around but secretly loved. There was a man with a cane, a pill, a doctor who helped him be human again.

Sherlock dreamed up a future for himself, dreamed of striding along, tall and assured, through the streets of London, black coat fluttering about his ankles. In his crib, he slurped at his dummy and his hands waved in the air.

And when he woke because his belly was empty and his diaper less so, early in the morning, the man who would one day carry an umbrella came to his crib side, young hands gathering him up and changing him, feeding him a hurriedly prepared bottle while running hands through his dark hair. Mycroft sleepily burped his brother, then curled up in the arm chair near his crib to hold him as he fell asleep.

Next morning, when Mrs. Holmes went to wake Mycroft for school, they found him curled protectively around the baby, arms cradling him against his chest. 

Sherlock forgot the dreams, and if his first word was “twee”, well, what did it matter?


End file.
